The only reason I stepped into the Corinthian Hotel was to negotiate my freedom.
The marble lobby gleamed like it had been polished with blood—fitting, considering who owned the place. Every surface reflected my face back at me in sharp, clean lines. I kept my chin up, my heels clicking a little too loud on the floor as if announcing: I'm not scared.
Lie.
I was terrified.
Two hours ago, a black envelope had been shoved under my apartment door. Inside was a single sheet of paper with a gold seal:
9PM. CORINTHIAN HOTEL.
— ADRIAN VASSARI
Adrian.
Head of the Vassari Syndicate.
The man whose empire was built on shadows and graves.
The man who blamed me for something I didn't do.
A man who should have wanted me dead.
But he summoned me instead.
A guard in a black suit led me into the penthouse. The entire top floor was glass walls, city lights spilling in like molten gold. And there he was—leaning against the edge of a dark oak desk like he owned the night.
Adrian Vassari.
A tailored black shirt. Sleeves rolled to the forearms. Cold grey eyes that scanned me the way men like him scanned threats, not people.
"Miss Hale," he murmured, voice low enough to bruise. "You're late."
I wasn't. But arguing felt equivalent to stepping on a landmine.
"I got your… invitation," I said.
He almost smiled. Almost.
"Good. Saves me the trouble of dragging you here."
My pulse jumped. The guard closed the door behind me, sealing us in with the tension.
"You wanted to discuss the accusation?" I asked. "Because I didn't steal anything from you. I don't even know what you think I took—"
Adrian straightened, slow and deliberate, picking up a folder from the desk. "Let's clarify. You didn't steal from me. Your father did."
Ice slid down my spine.
He opened the folder. Photos. Financial statements. A forged signature I recognized all too well. My father's.
"He intercepted a shipment belonging to me," Adrian said. "A shipment worth seven million pounds."
I swallowed hard. "I don't know where he is. I haven't heard from him in months—"
"Oh, I know," Adrian cut in. "Your father is good at running." He tilted his head. "You, on the other hand… are not."
Anger snapped through me. "So what? You drag me here because you can't find him? Threaten me? Kill me? Is that the plan?"
Adrian stepped closer.
Not rushed.
Not aggressive.
Just certain.
"I don't need you dead," he said. "I need you useful."
My breath caught as he handed me a document.
A marriage contract.
Thirty days.
No divorce.
No escape clause.
No explanation.
I stared at the paper, unable to breathe.
"You can't be serious."
"You'll live in my house," he said. "Attend public events with me. Play the role convincingly."
"Why me?"
His jaw tightened just slightly.
"Because someone out there thinks I'm vulnerable. Rumors are spreading. A wife makes me look stable." His eyes locked on mine. "And I want the world to see that the daughter of the man who stole from me kneels at my side."
Anger flared so bright it almost drowned out the panic.
"So I'm a trophy."
"No." His voice dropped, dark and quiet. "You're leverage."
I shoved the contract at his chest. "Find someone else to use."
"I could," he said calmly. "But I chose you. And before you refuse, consider this—"
He slid another paper from the folder and placed it gently into my palm.
A photo.
My little brother.
Hands bound behind him.
Terrified.
The room snapped out of focus.
My voice cracked. "No. No, you didn't—"
"He's alive," Adrian said. "For now."
My knees nearly gave out. "What do you want from me?"
His eyes softened for half a second—so brief I almost doubted it.
"Thirty days," he repeated. "As my wife."
My throat burned. "And if I say no?"
"Then you walk out those doors," Adrian said quietly. "And your brother doesn't make it to morning."
I hated him.
I hated how calm he was.
How easy this decision was for him.
How he held my entire world between his fingers like it was nothing.
My hands shook as I picked up the pen.
Adrian watched me sign, his gaze steady, unreadable.
When I finished, he reached out and dragged the pen from my hand, his fingers brushing mine. A jolt shot through me—fear or something else, I couldn't tell.
He folded the contract.
"From this moment," he said, "you belong to me."
He held out his hand for me to take.
I didn't.
But he didn't drop it.
Instead, he leaned close, his breath warm against my ear.
"Thirty days," he whispered. "Try not to fall for me."
I almost laughed. Bitter. Sharp.
"I'd rather die."
"You might," he murmured. "But not by my hand."
And with that, he turned and walked out of the room.
Leaving me standing there with a ring on my finger that weighed heavier than chains.